


Head Full Of Doubt

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: A bit of mushiness I suppose, Armie is so in love Jesus Christ, Fluff, How could I not write this after the Oscars?, M/M, Mild Angst, Oh my god I didn't write porn?, Oscars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: "Don't act like you're outlandishly in love with him." AKA Timmy and Armie both get warned by their PR people before the Oscars to chill with the public affection and completely fail, bringing some serious truths to light.





	Head Full Of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> So, as we all know, the Oscars happened, and I still can't calm down about them. I wrote this in about two hours so I'm sorry if it's complete shit but I needed to get it out. The way Armie was looking at Timmy at the Oscars gave me some bone-deep feels and what came out of those feels was this (completely fictional, probably ;) scenario. The way they are with each other is just ridiculous and like, just kiss already. PLEASE.
> 
> Completely, shamelessly shouted out to all of us straight up working for the FBI on Tumblr trying to decipher every little whisper between our boys via gifsets and videos.
> 
> Title came from one of my most dearly loved songs of all time, Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise by the Avett Brothers. Hope you guys enjoy :)
> 
> Inspired by VexedByLoki - she gave me some amazing imagery to work with. Oak Tree + Koala forever

_Don’t get too close to him._

_Don’t look at him like that._

_Don’t whisper in his ear for too long._

_Don’t touch him there._

_Don’t touch him at all  
_

_Don’t_

_Don’t_

_Don’t_

_Don’t act like you’re outlandishly in love with him._

After a full day of explicit reminders all starting with the loathsome word _don’t_ from a well-meaning PR team and the overly concerned duo of Nicole and Pauline, Timothée has had just about enough of people telling him what he can and cannot do around Armie Hammer.

“He’s my best friend. He’s my mentor. It’s not like we’re going to start making out in public, Jesus Christ,” he rants as he adjusts his jacket in front of the mirror. Next to him Pauline stands close, scrutinizing eyes roving sharply over his outfit, and when he finishes speaking she smirks.

“Oh no? Can you promise me that?”

“Pauly, yes, come on,” answers Timothée in mild vexation, the cadence of his voice turned down at the edges like a frown. “I’m not an idiot. And it’s not like that’s ever going to happen, I mean have you seen the way he looks at Liz, we’re not – "

“ _Arrête. Timmy, je sais_ _,”_ interrupts Pauline softly, “ _je sais que tu es amoureux de lui_.” I know that you’re in love with him.

Timothée looks at her and his heart is stricken in his esophagus because in his mind if his sister knows then everyone knows. “ _Tu dis n'importe quoi,_ ” he says, but he says it too quickly and Pauline’s gold-dust eyes start to glimmer.

“Oh, T, shush. We all know.” Gently, like breaking the bad news comes cooler if it’s spoken on a soft tone of voice. “Mom, Dad, Luca, everyone. I’m pretty sure if your PR people are talking to you about it then Liz has finally taken the wool off of her eyes and she’s going to be looking right at you. Don’t fuck this up, what you have with him.”

“I don’t have _that_ with him,” spits Timothée viciously.

“Yes you do,” says Pauline, smoothing his jacket collar, all fond. “Even if neither of you has spoken it aloud yet, yes you do. He looks at you like you painted the stars and talks about you just the same. Nobody would be saying a word to you about keeping your distance if it wasn’t so fucking obvious.”

Despite himself, Timothée grins, a luminous thing that curls all the way up to his ears.

“Shut up. He’s never said a word about that to me.” And that’s true, even though words are worth pence while actions are worth diamonds, and Armie’s actions towards him sparkle like a jewel mine. Bright enough to outshine his words.

“Well, of course, dumbass.” Again with that fondness. “He’s fucking married.”

*

Timothée has never been more keyed up in his entire life. He feels like he is in a rap song, balling out surrounded by Hollywood’s elite, standing out only because he can’t stop exclaiming and beaming and being the exhilarated, awestruck kid he is. He’s made it; he’s one of them. It’s just that he’s still Timothée and he doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between the awkward high schooler rapping “Statistics” for a project grade and the willow-tree young man looking pristine and put together in all white at the goddamned Academy Awards.

He needs Armie.

Last night, so late and wine-tipsy and unable to sleep and knowing that Liz was knocked out because she couldn’t stay awake after eleven, Timothée had texted Armie.

_Sorry if I’m weird tomorrow._

Immediately: _you’re always weird, punk. What’s up?_

_Apparently I touch you too much._

Excruciating pause. Timothée wonders fleetingly if Armie is experiencing nostalgia too, thinking of those one or ten nights in Crema where their lines of accountability had been blurred and they were reeling from that unmatched Italian wine, too close.

_Who told you that?_

Timothée’s fingers practically break in two in his alacrity to respond.

_PR people._

_Why?_

_No idea. They said it didn’t look good because Liz, or something._

Timothée hates this territory. Elizabeth has been nothing but kind to him and he knows that surely by now she suspects that he and Armie have trouble staying within the boundaries that circumstance forces them to set with each other but he is in love, love, love and it’s like swallowing arsenic every time he has to watch Armie kiss her.

_It doesn’t look good because Liz?_

_Yeah. Like, we’re too affectionate with each other and they say it looks weird because you’re married. Idk._

More pause. Timothée is shaking, anxious.

_Yeah. My PR people told me to back off your social media._

Timothée closes his eyes. He’d been wondering; he gets thousands of likes and comments on all platforms every single day but he’s always on the lookout for Armie, has notifications on for him. Those notifications have been silent for a bit and he hadn’t even realized that he’d been looking for that name to pop up until one day it didn’t.

_But you don’t touch me too much. Because that’s not possible._

Normal breath stops being a possibility for a second and Timmy has no idea what to say, how to reply, so fuck it.

_I don’t want to stop._

Pause. Tsunami of adrenaline, blood made of lightning, disquiet.

 _I don’t want you to either_.

Elation, bliss, so overwhelming Timothée feels tears surging; they haven’t talked about this, not ever, not even after waking up next to each other half-naked in bed under a blanket of windowblind-spliced Bergamo sunshine. Back then what they did under the invisibility cloak of twilight was only discussed in body language: sizzling, stripping eye contact, covert touches of the knee and hand, long fingers wrapped around forearms or hipbones or thighs even when they weren’t filming. Sexual tension so thick and elevated it could have shattered a glass house from the inside out.

_Just play by the rules tomorrow and I’ll try to do the same. We’ll discuss more in person. Get some rest, Sweet Tea._

Rest. Ha. What a concept. Now Timothée is charged and sparking like a loose wire in a thunderstorm, ready to unleash all this pent-up energy. And he knows exactly upon whom he wants to unleash it.

He can’t stop smiling, can’t stop moving. And always, always at the corners of his vision, in the back of his mind like the constant awareness of his iPhone, keys, wallet: Armie.

The necessities.

Everything is a blur: Meryl Streep is to his left; Saiorse is to his right, other people he’s watched light up screens since he was a child. Nicole is steadfastly by his side holding his hand through interviews, watching him as he poses for photos, encouraging with those comforting deep-set eyes. She keeps him half-grounded but his other half is _floating_ , calling and singing out loud because Armie is near, near, near.

Then, inevitably, they come together on the red carpet and the paparazzi want _clickbait_ so they cajole the two men to _stand near each other, guys, come on, act like you like each other_ and Timothée nearly cackles out loud because if only they knew. He tries not to act overly eager but they’ve barely been within speaking distance all night and as is their custom they fly at one another like an arrow hitting a bullseye. They make two seconds of eye contact and Timothée comprehends words in Armie’s intent gaze: _don’t talk about anything, they can read your lips_.

As much as Timothée is _exploding_ with Armie’s warm bulk mashed against his side, warm and pulsing and tall as an oak tree, he understands that Armie is right: they have to keep it neutral. If not one other news outlet is sharp enough to catch any illicit whisperings on their lips the Holmes-like sleuths on Tumblr will decipher their words before you can say _gifset_.

Behind Timothée’s back Armie squeezes and skitters his fingers, wraps his hand around the younger’s elfin waist, body language screaming _want_ per his custom. Without even moving his lips Timothée says, “ _Armie_ ,” and that hand tightens hard in response.

“Soon,” returns Armie, and Timothée can tell by the way the elder’s body is thrumming that this unfulfilling, torturous proximity is _murdering_ him. Too soon Armie leans in while concurrently drawing back and before letting him go to sidestep back to Liz he growls, “Now go. Shine, shine, _shine_.”

Timothée can’t hide the euphoria on his face; he is illuminated for that rumble of encouragement, one half of his body burning from Armie’s heat. Under the spell of those words he couldn’t do anything but shine if he tried. He stutters something out in response but he can’t even remember what he said two seconds later and the cameras catch the elation enhancing his beautiful features. From the corner of his eye he can sense Armie watching him hotly and the dynamism of his observation is enough to knock him down. Under the transformative power of that gaze he is handsome, inexorable, on top of his little world, and he has to go to war with himself not to look back and show Armie exactly how he is making him feel.

He hopes Armie knows anyway.

*

Hundreds (thousands?) of camera flashes later, half-blinded, Armie and Timothée find each other in the midst of the crowd, hiding in plain sight. Elizabeth is talking to Pauline, who is gushing about her baking with the kind of intent enthusiasm that one cannot look away from, and the rest of Timothée’s family is enthralled in conversation with Luca. The two men stand far enough apart to circumvent direct suspicion but Armie’s eyes are overflowing with some emotion to which Timothée cannot immediately assign a name.

Timothée says, “I can’t take this.”

“You’re doing well,” says Armie, and he laughs. “Too well.”

“Hey,” Timothée protests, “I’m just following your advice."

“And the advice of countless others, no doubt.” Armie turns his head and without even stopping to consider Timothée leans in, drawn to him, trashing all the hard work he’s done to act like he isn’t attuned to Armie’s every minuscule movement.

“Timothée,” says Armie softly, “I love you.”

Not even the most prestigious level of acting skill could have allowed Timothée to throw a quick mask up over his face for that admission. He can feel his jaw drop so hard it must now surely be unhinged and he goes boneless and numb while simultaneously roaring to life, the victorious howl in his heart rising wolflike to the surface as his pulse starts sprinting because he knows what Armie is saying; he’s not saying _I love you, bro_ , he’s saying _cor cordium_. He can’t remember how to speak English, he can’t remember how to speak French, he can’t remember how to be a human being.

“You – ” he begins, probably the start of some ridiculous sentence along the lines of “you _love_ me?” but then his mother and Pauline are at each of his elbows, shouting, “Timmy, Armie, come on, it’s time to go sit!” And just like that he is being dragged away with his face immobile from shock and the prospect of an immediate reply impossible. Armie’s eyes as he watches Timothée get pulled away are petrified and Timmy tries to rearrange his expression into some semblance of encouragement but he is just poleaxed. Never in a hundred thousand eons did he anticipate Armie to say anything of the sort; not in _that_ way at least, and certainly not at the Academy Awards amongst hundreds of their peers. It was a risk and maybe not a calculated one because if Timothée were in Armie’s place he’d have needed validation absolutely instantaneously.

His entire body is flowing lava current and when he turns his head to look back at Armie their eyes connect and Timothée tries as hard as he possibly can to return the sentiment with only his facial expression.

It won’t be enough until he can speak the words out loud.

*

Of course he knows he isn’t going to win; of course he is sickly disappointed anyway. Hands on his shoulders, his hair, hugs from all around; Elizabeth and Armie enfold him at the same time, murmuring sweet condolences, and Timothée tries to run his fingers over the expanse of Armie’s strapping back in a way that conveys his affection while batting the melancholy that bites through his heart. He feels like a ship that is sinking.

Soon, everyone says, it’s just your sunrise. You will shine

 _(shine, shine, SHINE_ )

when the time is right.

Well. The time might not be right for him to win an Oscar but the time is correct for him to find any way possible to corner Armie and press his shoulders against a wall and confess his love right back.

The problem is, he will have to play the waiting game. Everyone wants to go get a drink afterward and he is carted along, Pauline keeping her hand snugly crooked in the fold of his arm, and just from the way her skin is crackling he knows she wants to ask him something so he turns to her and says,

“ _What_?” Under a low breath.

“ _Qu'est-ce qu'il t'a dit_?” What did he say to you?

Indiscernibly Timothée shakes his head. “ _Plus tard_.”

“ _Timothée_.”

“Seriously, Pauly. I can’t.”

Pauline takes him at his word; this is one thing she excels at, knowing when to back away. And so the rest of the evening passes. The entire crew is staying at the same hotel and there is a private area sectioned off there, designed purposely to allow the Academy Award elite to unwind post-ceremony. During drinks while Armie and Timothée make scads of eye contact and smooth conversation, always, always surrounded by other people so they can riff off the words of their comrades. Their mutual apprehension becomes less awkward as the evening goes on and eventually their numbers dwindle: Luca excuses himself first, followed by Timothée’s parents, all begging exhaustion. Elizabeth is trying her damnedest to stay awake but eventually she, too, gives in to the need to sleep. When she leaves there is nothing in her eyes but kindness and sympathy and maybe in the background a little bit of understanding. Before she goes Timothée gives her the largest bear hug he can manage and he is gratified when Armie squeezes her just as tightly. Maybe this won’t be the apocalypse he’s been envisaging after all.

Eventually, even Pauline grows tired of the atmosphere and vacates; where she goes, nobody knows, and Timothée does not care. He is pleasantly hazy around his edges with alcohol and he needs to speak with Armie now. It is one-thirty am.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “think we can get away with sitting by the pool?”

“I think they’ll let us use our celebrity status if you want me to ask,” answers Armie, looking back and forth between Timothée’s iridescent eyes so he can search him, and the younger nods once.

While Armie goes to make the request to the front desk Timothée gazes around the room, now mostly comprised of the younger crowd, still looking alive and well for the coming night. He feels like he is outside of his own skin: nothing about tonight has been real, surely, especially not the fact that he and Armie Hammer are pulling their movie-star strings to get this swank-ass hotel to let them use their pool for private talks. But before he knows it Armie has returned and he returns that single nod of confirmation and then they are slipping out unobtrusively, unnoticed, alone together for the first time in days.

When they reach the top floor, unbearably silent, Armie produces the working key card he obtained from the concierge and then they are on the rooftop under the sultry Hollywood sky, no stars, only lights. The air is temperate and still surrounding them and Timothée has not experienced magic like this since Italy.

They cross to the water and even in their spiffy suits neither hesitates to roll up their pant legs, sit, and dangle their feet. The water is chilly but Timothée has been a furnace for hours and it feels like paradise.

“Armie,” he says, at the same time Armie says, “Timothée."

Armie says immediately, “You go first.”

“So, I have two things,” says Timothée slowly, training his eyes on the trail of their toes in the pale blue water, nostalgic. This is what it is like to be fully alive, he realizes, fully in tune with his body and soul at the same time. Whole.

“Okay,” says Armie, and his voice is rough, a bit terrified, but he still manages to joke. “You may proceed, then.”

“First of all,” begins Timothée, seriously, and here he looks up to meet Armie’s unblinking gaze. “You asshole, for springing that on me in the middle of the Academy Awards.” But he is laughing, and Armie grins too, sheepishly. “Second of all, I. Oh my god, I literally never thought that this would – that I could, you know – have the chance to actually tell you.”

“Tell me what?” prompts Armie when Timothée pauses to swallow and gather himself because even after Armie’s profession he is still afraid to speak.

Familiar words of wisdom flash through his brain: _is it better to speak or die_?

 _Speak, I think_.

“Tell you that – I, you know. I’ve been in love with you practically since I fucking met you, Armie. You’re like the fucking sun in my sky. It sounds ridiculous and cliché but I actually did not know that I could feel this way about another person until I met you. You make me laugh, you always know what to say, you’re always there for me, you feel like home. I’ve wanted to be with you for ages and ages and I guess it was starting to show because everyone has been on my _ass_ about it, but I’m not good at hiding my emotion. As we all know.” Again Timothée laughs, half nerves, half courage. “I was trying to – respect your marriage, and not overstep my boundaries, but.”

“You know we already did some overstepping in Italy,” croaks Armie, looking like a terminally ill man who has just been told he is no longer dying.

“Right, and then didn’t talk about it,” jibes Timothée, and they grin at each other, shoulder-nudging, knee-knocking. “I just didn’t know – where to go from what we were doing.”

Armie looks down, looks up again, sighs on a little tragic smile.

“I was happy, before I met you,” he says, quietly. “I was fine and getting along and all of that stuff. But then you were there and all of a sudden I was _fantastic_. Because of you. I looked forward to seeing you every day. I wanted to know everything about you. You made me see the world in a different way. I am so disgustingly proud of you and everything you do and how much you’ve done in this short period of time. You changed my life, T.”

Timothée is aching, his fingertips hot, his heart taking up his entire being. “I feel that way about you. I was dying trying to shut it up, I thought I wasn’t allowed…”

“We probably aren’t allowed,” says Armie, shaking his head slightly. “at least not according to the general handbook on life, it seems. But I don’t honestly give a good goddamn.”

He raises one golden hand and thumbs along Timothée’s swordblade jawline, learning his skin again, finding his bones. Curling his fingers up to sift through Timothée’s mussed hair, holding his head steady so he can match their foreheads together. Timothée releases a sharp huff of air, unsteady, made of need. His eyes are on Armie’s open red mouth.

Armie kisses him, gently, _gently_. They have kissed outside the guise of Elio and Oliver on multiple occasions but they have never spoken of those occurrences; not until tonight. Tonight it feels different because the unspoken emotion that has been flowing between them for months and months is in the open and if Timothée doesn’t have a clue where they’re going to go from here he at least knows without question that they are on the same brain wavelength. Armie wants what he wants and what he wants is this. For this moment, that knowledge is more than sufficient.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be honest with you guys, I still don't know how to handle Elizabeth in this situation, because I am used to FIERCELY guarding my OTPs and being jealous for them, but I think in this case things are a bit different - I'm leaning towards the "she knows, understands, and is basically completely cool with it" mindset here, because I think that's what is most likely to happen in real life and I try to stay as close to true events as possible most of the time. These two are a whole new animal for me but I am here to STAY.


End file.
